Author's Announcement:
Forgive me taking up your time, but I feel a few words of caution are needed before anyone starts reading this story.
Lost is a companion piece to Counsel. It's not intended as a stand-alone, and I strongly advise readers who have not asked or who are not interested to please NOT read this novella. I will not respond to, nor will I publish any rude and/or derogatory comments questioning its publication on this site. So, for those, inclined to do so, please save yourselves the time and effort. I've done so because readers requested that I do and because I promised, at the time, that when it was complete I'd post it on FFn and leave it up long enough for interested persons to read.
It is now finished, totals eleven chapters, which I'll make available as soon as I possibly can, depending my current workload. At this stage, I anticipate posting at least three chapters a week.
To those who have purchased the published versions of Counsel and Justice, I once again say a heartfelt, 'Thank you'. I'm humbled and grateful, always, for your support. Should you prefer to read the published characters' version of LOST, it will be available to read on my website in the next day or two.
Copyright: Twilight character names are the sole property of Stephanie Meyer. Original story, plot lines and characters belong to Write Sisters (Shenda Paul) and are subject to copyright laws.
Chapter One
"You're late! Where've you been?" Rose demands when I enter the kitchen where she and Mom are.
"None of your business," I snap, grabbing the cookie jar.
"No arguing," Mom warns and comes over to kiss my cheek.
"Do you want milk?" Rose asks, already opening the refrigerator door.
"Thanks," I smile at her unspoken apology. Shifting between affection and irritation has epitomized our relationship for nearly a decade now. Six at the time and two years younger than me when I came to live with the Cullens, Rose assumed the role one would expect from an older, not younger sister.
From the start, she seemed, always to either be trying bully or mother me. She nags when she thinks I'm holding back, argues when she disagrees with me and comforts me when I'm upset; and I admit I'd been agitated a lot in those early years. Em says I was a moody bastard, that I still am, but withdrawing is my coping mechanism. It was how I dealt with my confusion and feelings of rejection in my last years with Elizabeth. It's what I still do when coming to grips with something that bothers me. I have no problems being sociable, but I'm not naturally gregarious, probably a symptom of spending so much of my early life only with Elizabeth and, later, when she changed, alone. Now, I prefer spending time with my family and close-knit group of friends.
When I want to be alone, Mom and Dad will make sure I'm okay and only push if they think it's necessary, and my friends, even Liam, who can be a pain in the ass, will give me space when I demand it. Rose, however, does no such thing; she ignores whatever mood I'm in. She's like a damned steamroller, determined to flatten out what she used to call my 'grumpy bumps', which, now, she refers to as 'ridding me of my morose pig-headedness.'
She's always done that, even as a little girl, and my response has always been either one of acceptance or expressed irritation, depending on her level of pushiness, my mood, or the circumstance. But no matter how annoying she can be or angry she makes me, my love for Rose is unquestionable. I think the same can be said of her feelings for me.
Our affection had been almost instantaneous and, despite her hearing problems and my inability to sign, we managed to communicate. Somehow, Rose always seemed to know when I was unhappy. She'd sneak into my room at night, squeeze into the small space between my bed and the wall it was pushed up against, to hold my hand, silently letting me know I wasn't alone.
I didn't realize the feeling of protectiveness was a two-way street until some months after I arrived when hanging out with Em in the playground, I heard spiteful laughter. I don't know what made me race over, but I did and found Rose surrounded by a group of kids. I didn't care that those little punks were younger than me or that two of them were girls; I shoved them aside roughly and put my arm around Rose's shoulder.
She was flustered, angry, and on the verge of tears. At that stage, she hadn't yet learned to lip-read well; she could only pick up familiar words and had difficulty when people spoke too fast. Without them signing or speaking slowly, she had no idea what they were saying, and they were all yelling at once, confusing her even more. It hurt seeing her like that. I was so mad; I saw red when one of the boys called her a deaf freak. "Leave my sister alone!" I roared.
"She doesn't have a brother," he said.
"She has now; and if I catch you messing with her again—" I glared at them, including the girls, "I'll punch your lights out," I threatened. They must have seen how serious I was, and Em, by this time, had moved to stand on the other side of Rose. They left without another word.
The Cullens had, we still have, a ritual where, at the dinner table, we take turns to share something about our day—good or bad. That night, I waited for Rose to tell what happened, but she didn't. Instead, I listened as Mom translated her signing for me. Rose told how her teacher had praised her drawing.
When my turn came, I asked to learn sign language because, after walking Rose to her class, I realized I was as bad as those kids who hadn't learned to speak with her properly. When Mom told Rose, her face split into the widest grin I'd ever seen. Rose, already being proficient, insisted on joining me in ASL classes, and our bond only grew stronger after that. I was ecstatic, of course, when less than a year later, my adoption was finalized, and I officially became Edward Masen Cullen. But I can honestly say that my happiness that day did nothing to dim the sense of belonging I felt standing up for Rose in the playground—because that was when I'd felt part of the Cullen family.
Almost two years ago now, Rose, who'd been adamant about not having a cochlear implant, changed her mind. Mom and Dad immediately arranged for her to see a specialist, and she underwent a myriad of tests before he pronounced her a viable candidate. Rose, in fact, our entire family were warned that it would not be an easy journey. The surgery was vital to her regaining adequate hearing, but it was only the first step, the specialist told us. It would take a lot of work, perseverance, and patience from Rose and our unwavering support for her to gain the maximum benefit from the implant.
Surgery for pre-lingually deaf recipients is not always successful, and there are varying levels of success, he cautioned. "I want you all to be realistic, you especially, Rose," he stressed. He had, however, been optimistic about a good outcome. "Your parents did a good thing ensuring that you could read and sign from an early age. Because of that, you have excellent language comprehension," he told Rose. He was right, because, even at six, when I joined the family, her ability to read and understanding of the English language had been diagnosed as equal to other kids her age. Strong language skills, we learned at that meeting, are crucial to helping deaf people understand spoken language.
It made sense to me then, and probably Rose too, why, despite her refusing an implant, our parents insisted she continue speech therapy, something she did for years, even after I joined the family. Mom and Dad had, it would seem, always held out hope that Rose would change her mind and did everything to ensure that, if she did, she'd have the best possible outcome.
Rose underwent surgery six months later and had her cochlear implant activated about a month after that. Another nine months passed before the specialist announced that it had reached its peak performance. Nine months, during which my sister suffered discomfort in and above her right ear, the surgical area. She experienced dizziness, nausea, and disorientation. And who would ever have thought that one would have to learn to tolerate sound, but once the implant was activated, Rose had to before she could learn to decipher different sounds.
For some reason, despite what we'd been told, I'd thought, well hoped, the surgery would restore Rose's hearing and ability to speak overnight, but it didn't. My admiration for her grew and knew no bounds as I watched her determinedly overcome each new obstacle, and those lessons that Mom and Dad insisted she take helped significantly, just as the specialist had predicted. Her hearing isn't perfect now; it never will be, but she can do things she couldn't before— things, most people view as insignificant or take for granted—like hearing the voices of the person or people they love, using a phone, listening to music, effectively communicate with strangers. She can do all of that now.
Rose still lip-reads, though. I don't think she'll ever stop because it's something that's become natural to her, and, despite it no longer being necessary, she often still signs when speaking to Mom, Dad, or me. We reciprocate because for us, as a family, it's a special bond we share.
Rose is fifteen now and, because of her unusual speech, a result of her hearing impairment, still attracts unwanted attention. And, of course, the external transmitter of her implant is noticeable, especially when her long hair moves and the shaved patch on her scalp or the earpiece shows. It irritates me when people stare. "What the fuck?" I want to demand when I see someone staring, but then those ignorant, dumb asses would notice of any person they view as different or handicapped. Rose, thankfully, doesn't appear fazed by the attention her device draws, which helps me, for the most part, to ignore it too. But my sister's also noticed for other reasons.
She's beautiful and is, very obviously, growing up. In the last year, I've challenged both catty girls and hormonal boys who thought her fair game. I've even gotten physical with punks who tried to take their interest too far. Rose, no shrinking violet, is more than capable of standing up for herself, but I'd never let her do so on her own, certainly not if I can help it. I'll always be there for her, just as she has and continues to be for me.
"What's for dinner, I'm hungry?" I ask, peering over Mom's shoulder.
"You're always hungry, sweetheart. We're having pot roast, so stop filling up on cookies," Mom tells me.
"I won't," I promise and, then, just as Rose moves to put the jar away, I snag another cookie. Mom shakes her head and smiles indulgently, and I wink at her as I leave the kitchen.
I first met Esme Cullen when I was six years old. I'd been nervous when someone knocked on our door because I expected it to be one of Elizabeth's male visitors. Instead, when Elizabeth opened the door, I looked into the smiling face of a woman, who looked a lot like my mother—her auburn hair was lighter, and her eyes were golden brown not green, but they were bright like I remembered Elizabeth's being before she changed. There were so many obvious similarities between Elizabeth and Esme, things my mother once had and which I hankered after, that I felt an almost instant connection with the stranger at our door.
"I'm Esme Cullen, with the local department of social services," she said, her voice friendly and her smile encouraging. Elizabeth glanced worriedly back at me before answering.
"I don't need any help, I'm taking care of my son," she protested.
"I'm sure you are, Miss Masen, and I'm here to help in any way I can," Esme said and then something about the department sending someone else if Elizabeth didn't let her in.
I hadn't understood what that meant, except that I was scared of someone other than Esme or old Mrs. Doyle, our kind neighbor, visiting. Elizabeth, thankfully, let her in, and I remember well, how, soon after she'd sat down on our faded sofa, she pulled a chocolate bar from her bag and handed it to me. I felt unsure, and despite being desperately hungry, hesitated. "My daughter loves these," she said, "I'm sure you will too." Her smile had been warm and gentle, so I did. I offered it to Elizabeth, knowing that, like me, she hadn't eaten, but she shook her head, her glazed eyes looked tearful as she touched my cheek. "I'm fine, Edward," she said, "you have it."
I ate while sitting on the floor where afterward, I played when Esme suggested that she and Elizabeth move to the kitchen to talk. I looked up often to make sure Elizabeth was okay to see Esme watching me. She smiled each time our eyes met even though I didn't reciprocate. I didn't until I felt sure she wasn't there to hurt Elizabeth or me, and then I gave her a tiny smile.
Esme came by often after that, and I looked forward to her visits. She was nice and always brought food and for me, one of those special chocolate bars. She'd help Elizabeth get me ready for school, and when she didn't, Mrs. Doyle would bring me breakfast and make sure I got to school. I don't know what would have happened to me if they hadn't cared enough.
I remember how embarrassed I felt when arriving at school, especially in those last months. Everyone else's mother was alert, smiling, and happy; not mine. Elizabeth had been listless, often barely able to function. I hadn't known, then, what was wrong; all I knew was that my once vibrant mother, who'd doted on me, had changed. I was picked on mercilessly because of my 'odd' mom.
Finally, having had enough, I pushed Roger Montgomery over in the playground. When asked, I stubbornly refused to repeat what he'd said. I didn't know what whore meant, but I just knew it was bad. He, of course, claimed innocence, saying I attacked him for no reason. My silence, in the teacher's eyes, spelled guilt.
Unable to reach Elizabeth, she called Esme, who, for whatever reason, by some miracle I thought, had been listed as my emergency contact. Instead of getting into trouble as I'd expected, she bought us each an ice cream and took me to the park. All I'd say when Esme asked what happened was that Roger had said bad things about my mommy. Esme gently reprimanded me for fighting, telling me there was a right and a wrong way to deal with someone who'd harmed me. She said if something like that happens again, I should tell a teacher and explained that it's always best when someone does you harm, to tell the right authorities. I asked what authorities means, and she said people like mommies and daddies, teachers, the police, and doctors.
It didn't matter what Roger said, my mommy loved me and was doing the best she could, Esme told me. I didn't respond; I didn't want to talk about what had happened or the way my mommy had changed. I wanted to eat my ice cream and pretend I was normal, and being with Esme made me feel that way.
.
.
"I got us tickets to the game next Saturday?" Dad announces as he passes me the potatoes.
"Thanks, Dad!" I return his grin and help myself to a large serving before handing the bowl to Rose.
"Field box, tier one," he adds, causing my smile to nearly split my face.
"That's not fair—" Rose complains.
"It is, Rosalie. You got the shoes you wanted last week, and Edward's been getting excellent grades; he deserves a reward," Dads counters, looking up to smile at me—that smile, the one that lets me know he's proud of me.
And that's just another reason why I love Carlisle; he always lets me know he's proud of me. Well, both Rose and me, but she's his biological child; I'm not. Unlike with Esme and Rose, I hadn't felt instantly at ease with Carlisle when we met. In fact, I'd been downright wary of him because my only interactions with men, until then, had been with those who visited Elizabeth, and those encounters hadn't been pleasant. So, when first entering the Cullen home, I saw him, I hid behind Esme.
He smiled encouragingly and dropped to his knees, bringing his face level with mine. "Hi Edward, I'm Carlisle, and I'm very happy to have you here," he said. I stepped back only to bump into someone behind me. I spun around to face a blonde, blue-eyed girl with lopsided pigtails and a big smile. She moved her hands oddly and then looked at me expectantly.
"This is Rosalie, our daughter. We sometimes call her Rose. She's nearly six, and she says hello and welcome," Carlisle said.
"She didn't talk," I turned to Esme, refusing to acknowledge him.
"She talks by signing. Those movements she made said, 'Hello, Edward, welcome home'," Esme explained. I stared at her in amazement before turning back to the girl.
"Thanks," I said, and her smile grew, showing the gap in her front teeth.
"Rose wants to show you your room," Carlisle announced and got to his feet. The girl clutched his hand and glanced over her shoulder, and when I didn't follow, motioned for me to hurry.
It took months before I'd freely speak with Carlisle, and by that time, he and Esme had been appointed my foster parents. Emmett wanted me to join his Little League baseball team, but I was afraid to ask, worried the Cullens would think me a bother and send me away. Em nagged for weeks before I built up the courage to mention it to Esme, and then, to my disappointment, she said she'd need to discuss it with Carlisle. I was sure he'd say no, but he surprised me that night when he agreed I could join.
Esme and Rose accompanied me to my first match and waved when I looked for and found them in the stands. I was so happy and proud to have someone— a family— to support me. When my turn came, I ran onto the field, grinning like an idiot, assumed the stance I'd been taught and managed, despite my nervousness, to hit the ball. "Great shot, Edward!" a familiar voice shouted. I looked over, shocked, to find Carlisle jumping up and down excitedly. I can't begin to describe how I felt seeing him there.
I'd secretly longed to have a dad like other kids but had resigned myself to never having one. In the past, whenever I'd raise the subject with Elizabeth, she'd grow sad. "I'm sorry, Edward, but you don't have a daddy; you only have me," she'd say. So I didn't ask again and, eventually, stopped thinking about having a father.
When I walked off the field that day, and Carlisle put his hand on my shoulder, drawing me close, I hugged him back. I proudly introduced him to my coach as my foster dad. "Soon to be his adoptive dad," Carlisle added, looking as proud of me as I was of him. I stared up at him, surprised and overjoyed that they'd want to keep me.
"Edward?" Mom's voice brings me back to the present. "Did you hear what I said?"
"He was probably dreaming about Natalie Jones," Rose says before I can respond. I feel my face flush.
"Who's Natalie Jones?" Mom asks.
"No one," I mutter, but my busybody sister, who has nothing better to do than stick her nose into my business, keeps talking.
"Edward likes her," she rolls her eyes, pretending to swoon. "He wants to kiss her," she says, smacking her lips together.
"Shut up, Rose," I warn her, raising my voice.
"Don't shout at your sister, Son; and Rosalie, leave your brother alone. How'd you like it if he tells everyone you're sweet on Emmett?" Dad asks, trying to keep a straight face.
"I'm not sweet on Emmett McCarty!" she yells, glaring daggers at me even though I hadn't said anything to our parents about her always hanging around when Em came home with me. I'd said plenty to her, of course.
"Stop it, you two," Mom admonishes. "Finish your dinner; and, Rose, you can help me clear up."
"What about Edward?" she complains.
"Your Dad has things to discuss with him."
"I haven't done anything wrong," I quickly say.
"Relax, Edward. I know you haven't—or have you?" Dad asks.
"No!" I protest. "What do you want to talk about?"
"After dinner; and there's nothing to worry about if, as you say, you've done nothing wrong," he replies dryly before filling his mouth with food.
.
.
"What's it mean?" I ask, staring at the letter Dad handed me.
"I'm not entirely sure, Edward, but it appears your biological father mentioned you in his will. I've called to speak with this Mr. Atkins," he points to the signatory. "He was out, but he'll call back."
"As you can tell from what he's written, Edward Winston died in a plane crash about six months ago, and it's taken his lawyers all this time to trace you. Charles Atkins has asked that I bring you to New York for a meeting."
Thank you for reading.